Clingstone

The fruit was spurious, in nature. Possibly. Like most things made in the hypermodern era, or the present year of 2123 (affectionately referred to by its denizens as “twenty-one-two-three”), the once-dead fruit looked picture perfect. Perfectly round, save for its seam and a dip where the stem grew, and unearthly smooth. Warm yellow and red color gradations carefully blended around it, like paint poured from an artist’s hand. Happenstance’s own hand, gloved, turned the fruit in quick rotations, appraising it as if it were a jewel of worth. In heat-dry desertscapes such as this, it was more than a jewel in worth. And yet, here it was in the market for sale, and for not much more than anything else Happenstance had come to buy. For a moment, Happenstance considered removing a glove just to feel the skin, knowing alone from looking that it would be smooth and cool and slick, like lamination on an android limb.

The vendor at the stall cleared her throat. Happenstance jumped, put the fruit back down with its pile of clones.

“I’m not sellin’ a look at ‘em,” the vendor said quick and short. She shifted in the leaning seat under the small ventilated umbrella, tugging at the collar of her brightly patterned top. The sun would be at peak in a few hours, and in the nearing winter, that wasn’t very high, but they both already wore the telltale beading of sweat that came with any sunny day.

Happenstance glanced down at the handwritten sign. Nectarines. A surprisingly modern sounding name for something that had died before she was born. She shrugged at the vendor as she eyed the nectarines. Even the one she’d just been holding seemed to melt away into the crowd, so that even focused, she struggled to remember which was the one she’d actually touched. Once, this level of generic creation, seemingly untethered from the bounds of season or climate was unheard of. A long time ago, but how long, she couldn’t say. She waved at the vendor vaguely, adjusting the cloth bags on her back.

“Just curious. Have a good day, now,” she chirped, pushing her bike along as she walked away. The vendor nodded minutely.

Happenstance did not come to the market to ogle the latest in simulacrative technology—a bland pairing of what advertising believed people missed from the old days and what scientists thought made sense to prioritize. Though, these days, as efforts were made to reverse the worst of the missteps of the human impact on the planet, more and more things existed only in that nebulous place of some scientist’s somewhere, somewhen. Plenty of things just outright died out: entire animal species, plants that were goaded into making fragile monocultures that blossomed and exhausted in the worst of the heat and fires, staple foods, cultural gestures, languages, no matter how widely spoken. It seemed very much like human nature to mourn the losses of our own hand and yet build these effigies as if fate itself were a lone actor twisting its cruel knife into the wound. She shook her head at the thought, pleased to hear the familiar sound of shell beads trailing the ends of her braids as they chimed around her head. Waxing poetic. She’d come to the market for maybe lunch, definitely dinner, and toiletries that she could keep at home or share with neighbors, a good story, and barring all of that, a look at the city before noon.

With one hand on the bike, she fished out a list in her pocket—hastily written, but still mostly clear. Some in her own hand, and some in Solomon’s. She squinted at the text, slowing a little to keep the words on the paper from seeming to jump and fly. She wanted to make a hearty bean soup that evening with the savory trimmings of pork meat and vegetables grown in the courtyard and nurtured between the pale ashen apartments. If she were only cooking for herself, she would happily cut back on the pricier components. But Summer was a long, hot string of months. According to the measure of the tilt and twirl of the Earth, it only lasted the span of June through August in this hemisphere. But in practice, in the true meaning of hot, Summer was an everyday companion. A fair-weather friend, nearer to you than God and surer than death. Making it through another long, hot one that had started in practice in March and only now seemed to subside in November was a miracle. And miracles deserved celebration.

Solomon had quipped that it was too hot for soup, but Happenstance retorted that she could make it outside, where it was already hot. He had tried to hide the flare of his nostrils when he’d laughed, but she saw.

TO BUY:

Pork (As much as you can get for $50—no more. Auntie’s fond of ham hocks)

Any greens to prop up what we got. Cabbage, kale, or collard greens will do

Black-eyed peas, enough for 7-8 people

Fresh broth from the church kitchen a bonus (Tell Louis I say hello)

Cornmeal for muffins

Liquor and juice

The list of toiletry requests was more precise, put together by anyone who was too tired, too weak, or too busy to attempt the trek into downtown. Especially because Happenstance at least had a bike to haul it all with. Solomon of all people had run the list up, with requests for toothbrushes, bath oils, new(er) linens, pen and paper, drinking water, old snacks she couldn’t stand the smell of, any camera with film, and 2 different kinds of medication. Though he had dutifully handed Happenstance a neat stack of old cash, diminishing in value with every year, she still scoffed at how sometimes he acted as if she has his errand person. Worse, he always chided her about how much she needed to spend. “For your purposes, this’ll do,” he said, “no more, no less, Happen.”

“Lot’s changed since you a kid in the 2080s,” she had snippily retorted. “You’re sure this’ll be enough?” She flapped the soft, loose bills at him pointedly, enjoying the sensation of them falling in the air. His face often belied the fact he was not even 50 yet, but then, those long long summers would age anyone in their wake. But Happenstance saw no reason to let him forget he was a modern man. Then, that old-young face bent under the pressure of his palpable irritation and squinted at her.

“It sure has. And yet, being poor is just the same as it’s always been—expensive. I’ve put off replacing most of those things for longer than you’ve been alive.” Solomon had tapped at the list with long, sinewy hand. “But doing a little research does help.” Before she could get another snide comment in, he’d turned on his heel and returned to his lower floor apartment.

She pictured the market in her head, placing herself in the southwest corner. If she tackled the greens, black-eyed peas, and cornmeal first, her bag wouldn’t get too heavy right away. She imagined a path weaving through the stalls with vegetables and grains, even stopping by the church kitchen for some broth, hopefully, and perhaps even lunch, if anyone had time to entertain her. Then afterwards she’d really load up with the liquor and meat and toiletries. She nodded to herself, feeling sufficiently oriented enough to push forward. As she walked east, facing that brilliant sun, the image of the nectarine flashed in her mind. She had no idea what it tasted like. The few fruits that were still around weren’t cheap, and the cheap ones weren’t all that good. Never mind them being fake. Or real-fake. She always wondered what it was like to work in the fancy companies that created simulacra. To be obsessed with something that you enjoyed 30, 40, 50 years ago? She didn’t know anything about that. And most of the time, it felt like a weird thing to focus on. Always some fruit, some TV show, some place somebody used to go. But she wondered, why not bring back the Spring and Fall? Why don’t we all pitch in and get the damn price for water and food and housing back down, live like we did in the old days. The old days seemed to be both structurally critical to how society was built, the foundation that undergirded everything, the salt on everyones’ brows. And at the same time, ephemeral. Ghostlike and dead and gone. Why’s everybody so worked up about stuff we don’t have anymore? Why make a fruit again, especially in an uncanny way, a way it never existed in the first place? She knew it was a fruitless (ha) question. After all, the same could be said about artificial intelligence, about androids, but anyone who was rich enough to afford those didn’t care about stuff like that, and anyone too poor was too busy trying to stay alive.

Like Solomon said, being poor is just like how it’s always been. She sighed a little and got back to her errands.

By midday proper, she’d gotten through most of them, and even had gotten especially lucky in a few key places. Sister Angeline was more than happy to see her, despite the fact she avoided actually participating during congregation. Apparently the food and supplies she’d biked over the week before was more appreciated than she’d realized. And for that, Sister Angeline had clasped her warm brown hands around Happenstance’s, thanked the Lord and thanked her, and she blushed. Sister Angeline insisted on an extra helping of the refreshing cucumber salad, and Happenstance ate every bite.

“Just tell some of your neighbors to bring something from the garden next Sunday!” Sister Angeline laughed. “I just know Solomon eked out something delicious from that courtyard of yours.”

“Of course he did,” said Brother Louis, “the real trick is getting him to come to church to share it.” The message that had been sent to him from Solomon was received with a tight, wry half-smile, that Louis insisted was more about Solomon’s general behavior than her message. As long as you’re not shooting the messenger, she’d thought.

“See, brother Louis, your problem is you want it too bad. You know Solomon don’t do a damn thing anybody wants him to do,” Happenstance found herself saying. Louis barked a short sharp laugh, then slapped his hand over his mouth. Angeline just about fell down laughing, waving Happenstance off as her laughter echoed right in and back out the little church house. She waved to them both, pushing off on her bike.

Shopping for toiletries wasn’t quite as successful, but she still managed to at least get everything she could find. By now, she was going to start losing sunlight, but she’d be damned if she went back to Solomon without everything he asked for. The owners of the general store weren’t having it with her haggling, and she settled for their prices she suspected were a little inflated. She at least had a little cash leftover, just enough to give back to Solomon.

Biking towards home, she passed the stall with the Nectarines again. The idea was enough for her to almost fall down off the bike. She careened over, turning sharp enough to leave tracks. She shouldn’t spend his money on this, she thought belatedly, but then, she was so curious. She had some money leftover, she’d convince him to just settle for her owing him later. Reading the signage again, she did the math. The crumpled bills in her hands could afford her one, maybe two, if the patterned shirt lady was willing to make a deal.

“How much for two?” Happenstance asked.

“Can you read the sign?” The lady said, looking sidelong at her.

“I can do two for $6, I can’t do more than that.”

“Then it sounds like you’re only getting one, kid.”

Happenstance groaned, thought for a moment. “You sure there’s nothing I can’t do in exchange? You don’t have any mail I could take the post office, or a friend that needs a ride?”

“On a bike?” The lady asked. First time she cracked something like a smile at Happenstance. Happenstance looked up at the sun on it way to descent. Wasting her time, and his money. She ran her fingers over the parts of her braids, sighing.

“Alright, kid, fine. Just this once.”

Happenstance whipped around, caution clear on her face. The lady laughed some more, and leaned back in her chair to pick up a cloth, a bag, and tucked two nectarines inside.

“Why?” Happenstance paid, took the bag, and held it to her chest.

“Weren’t I young once?” The lady asked.

Once they’d gotten dinner going and simmering, Happenstance stood at the threshold of Solomon’s apartment, producing what he had asked for, among them the pen and paper, nostalgic snacks rich in protein and salt, an old purple instant camera with film. He waited with something that almost seemed like patience.

“You did alright. Did you buy anything for yourself?”

She eyed him. “And since when do you care?”

He splayed his palms at her, a gesture she realized meant, nothing, no, nothingness.

“You didn’t give me change back. So you must’ve spent every dollar.”

Happenstance snorted a laugh quietly.

“Asshole. Did you give me a little extra just so I could get a treat for myself?”

“I was aware that may be the case, if you had a little extra to spend. You work too hard.” He looked at her with an amusement that unwound the tension in his tightly wound posture. “Wait, did you only get something for you?”

Happenstance laughed fully now and took out the carefully wrapped fruits from her bag. With her gloves removed, she felt her initial assumptions were right. At least partially. The subtle texture of the skin of the nectarines greeted her pleasantly, and she again looked the marvel over.

“Nectarines! Those must be some high-tech simulacrative ones, alright. Rounder than anything you ever saw. Look at that color.” He peered over at them. “Damn beautiful. Could almost be the real thing.”

“Not for so cheap,” she murmured. She sniffed the skin, eyes widening at the smell—a warm verdant springtime long forgotten and decades dead. “Have you ever had one? A real one?”

Solomon nodded, holding a hand out for the other until she obliged.

“When I was a kid, in the olden, ancient days. I remember there were nectarine and peach trees all over my hometown, despite how hard they got beat down by the heat for years. Less so when it stayed really hot. You’d think they all died, but then some would pop back up, and die again. And then we just never really saw them. But if you get so numb to living beings up and dyin’, you forget the little things about them you looked forward to.” He smelled the skin, too. “Them trees were pretty as hell. Pinker than you could dream and stooped down, like they wanna tell you a secret.”

She tried to imagine. The stillness in his eyes unmoored her, the edged, far-away of his silence, like he breathed in lifetimes for a moment. She recalled, vaguely, brothers and a sister in his life once. She briefly imagined him 40 years younger clambering over the branches of a tree with his siblings, somewhere deep in the ground beneath them the seed of what was once a delicious nectarine.

Happenstance took a bite. Sweet and tart, she was delighted to see the inside of the fruit was a bright yellowy orange. She chewed the flesh in silence, thankful for the cool snack in the simmering heat.

“It’s good.”

“It is a fake,” Solomon said, carefully flat.

“I wouldn’t know. This is all I know.”

“If we plant the pits and tend them, watch them for a few more years, water them? It could become something more…familiar. Then we’d have a tree of fruits.” Far, far away, he was.

“What kind of tree does a perfect machine make?” She asked.

“I don’t know one. Maybe one without fruit. Only one way to find out.” He took another bite.

“If it survives…” She said softly, now meeting the clingstone buried deep inside. She frowned as she bit around the startlingly large obstruction and its pitted surface, bloody color. Solomon snapped a few more bites and patted her shoulder with a light tough.

“Surviving is what we do, ain’t it? So it’s in good company.”

Happenstance chuckled softly, annoyed. He’d seemed to have found himself a personality for the evening.

“Oh yeah, Angeline and Louis say you should go to church.” Solomon gave her a reproachful glare. “I told him he wants it too bad, so you won’t do it because you’re an asshole.” Now that got a real good laugh from Solomon, eyes crinkling and all. Finally, she thought.

Nothing much else to be said until the two fruits were little more than pits to be dried. In the courtyard, the fire under the pot of dinner crackled and roared, spitting off heat as the rich, meaty aroma of the broth billowed into all corners of the apartment building’s white walls. Their friends and neighbors poured out as the sun finally began to wane, and the heat of the day with it.

Not until after the little miracle of dinner had been served, devoured, and digested did Happenstance remember the nectarines. Only later in longer, softer nights did she and Solomon dig a hole and tuck the seedlings into the ground, offering the odd uncanny fruits a new place to cling and to be extricated from—but only if the seedlings of the sweet nectarine tree were willing to break the ground asunder, first.